


The Prize

by Sintari (OriginalSintari)



Series: Sintari's Wincestmas 2019 Ficlets [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Implied/Referenced Incest, Jealous Dean Winchester, M/M, Pining, Pre-Slash, Underage Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22245958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalSintari/pseuds/Sintari
Summary: It was like whoever wins this pushup contest – his brother or this kid from school -  would get Sam as a prize. And Sam found he was extremely okay with that.Pre-slash and Weechester pining.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Sintari's Wincestmas 2019 Ficlets [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597102
Comments: 18
Kudos: 125





	The Prize

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Caffeinechesters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/caffeinechesters/pseuds/caffeinechesters) for Wincestmas 2019/2020.

Sam started junior year in one those Deep South high schools that didn’t even have a soccer team. The PE coach organized them daily into a loose soccer scrimmage, complete with makeshift nets on the baseball fields. Sam was picked middle-of-the-pack his first day. He got it. He was new, which made him chancy. But he was also tall, with that soccer player build that could make him the dark horse for one of the two football players chosen as team captains. 

Chad Fairlane, the type of jock with cut muscles but also poetically floppy blonde curls, looked Sam up and down in a way that made Sam squirm even more than he already had as the new kid. But Chad ended up losing him to linebacker Brock’s team and regretting it later when Sam scored two points off the opposing team’s goalie. 

He never mentioned the two division championship soccer trophies he’d lugged over three state lines, of course. By this point, Sam was accustomed to starting a new school as the blank slate on which other people drew their expectations.

The next day, Chad looked him and down again in a new, appraising, light, but again didn’t pick him. Not that he’d wanted some jock to pick him for his team. Not that it mattered when they’d be gone in a month, or two weeks, or tomorrow and Sam would fulfill his new kid obligations at another high school.

In their second game, Chad swept his legs out from under him in a foul so blatant that an attentive coach would have blown the whistle. But Sam lived a life where nobody ever blew a whistle to make it stop, even when they probably should have. So, he found Chad’s shin with his instep in a piston kick that sent Chad yelping back. Sam rolled himself up, ready for fists, and blinked, confused, when Chad just grinned at him while hopping on one foot rubbing his shin. 

“Good game, Winchester,” Chad had said when they walked back to the field house. He deliberately bumped Sam’s shoulder as they crossed an abandoned home plate where no chalk lines would be redrawn until spring, and Sam found himself smiling a little. 

That afternoon, Chad found him again in the bus line. Elbowed him in the ribs. Sam knew the type. Guys who could only communicate in the language of elbows and shoulders. He lived with two of them.

“Hang out?” 

Sam was surprised by the bitter tang of disappointment on the tip of his tongue when he had to say, “I gotta go straight home.”

They weren’t looking at each other, standing still like two buoys in the ocean while the rest of the school flowed around them. Sam knew people. Knew Chad was working up to something. 

“I could come with,” Chad said. 

Sam did look at him then. Dad was on a hunt. Dean would be at the auto shop where he picked up shifts for at least another couple of hours. 

“Not a lot to do at my house,” he tested.

“We’ll find something,” Chad said, and that was when Sam knew for sure. The sat in the same seat on the bus, but not speaking, and leaving miles of green pleather seat between their bodies. Sam thought of the lack of air conditioning in the house, the messy tangle he’d left his bedsheets. He thought about how one of Chad’s curls would look wrapped around his finger.

They rode with the same grandfatherly bus driver who Sam had already seen demand parental notes from every student who tried to finagle a different stop. But apparently Chad Fairlane was one of those boys, like Sam’s brother, immune to all rules that didn’t suit their mood that day. The bus driver didn’t say a word when Chad followed Sam off in the cookie-cutter subdivision where they were staying because Dad “knew a gal.” 

The house itself was one of those weird 70’s numbers with a diagonal wood slat exterior that gave away its age. Standing at the end of the driveway, it suddenly felt weird to Sam to invite this strange boy, who still smelled like fresh cut grass after their soccer game, into the house he shared with Dad and Dean. So, he suggested, “We could lift weights in the garage.” 

The separate garage was around back, full of interesting hand tools, their shapes outlined in pencil on a pegboard. 

“That’d be good,” Chad said. He looked at Sam and his tongue did something complicated behind his teeth and that was when Sam was sure - really sure this time - that once they entered the cool of the garage, the last thing they would do is mess around with weights. His hands shook a little.

“Race you,” Sam challenged, to dispel the awkwardness he felt more than anything. Chad played dirty, shoving Sam to the side, but Sam’s legs were longer, and they were neck and neck as they clamored pell-mell around the house only to come face to face with Dean, standing next to the Impala’s open hood, wiping his hands on a once-red shop rag. 

Sam’s eyes met his brother’s and held for a second longer than they should. The sparrow of expectation that had been fluttering in Sam’s chest cavity began flapping overtime, and it was like a physical loss when his brother dragged his eyes away to focus on Chad.

“Who’s this?” Dean’s voice was modulated carefully neutral.

“Uh… Chad.” Sam was still breathing heavily from the race.

“Of course, it is,” Dean said, smiling minutely at some private joke. 

“Chad, this is my brother Dean.” It was embarrassing, somehow, even saying their names in the same sentence. Like Dean could look through his skull and see the thoughts that had been swirling around his brain; x-ray vision through his clothes like in those old cartoons and know exactly what Sam, and certain parts of his anatomy, had expected to happen when the two of them closed the garage door behind them. 

But instead he just said to Dean, “I thought you were at work.” 

“But I’m not.”

Their eyes met again and tearing his gaze away this time felt like slowly ripping Velcro off the top of one of his little kid shoes. But he managed it and noticed for the first time that Chad was glancing between them, a question in his eyes. They stood there for a long second, three points in an acute triangle, before Golden Boy Chad with his middle-class manners broke the ice.

He jerked his thumb toward the weight set and asked Dean, “How much do you bench?”

“No idea,” Sam listened to Dean lie. “You?”

“One sixty-five,” Chad said, but offhand, not crowing about a number that was higher than Sam’s but lower than Dean’s. 

Dean’s hands were as clean as they could be now, barring the grease under his fingernails. He tossed the rag on the workbench and turned the weight of his full attention on Chad. Sam squirmed.

“How many pushups?” Chad asked. 

“Don’t know that either,” Dean said, considering. Nobody was looking at Sam now, who stood alone and awkward as his brother and his… friend… circled around each other like lions on the Serengeti. “Want to find out?” his brother said suddenly.

“If Sam is the ref,” Chad said. 

“By all means.” Sam’s brother had the same look in his eye that appeared when he “suddenly” acquired the knack for pool after the stack of bills on the rail piled sufficiently high. 

Sam was happy now that neither of them were looking at him because his dick was rock hard in his basketball shorts and that was confusing. It was like whoever wins this – his brother and Chad now dropping to the ground next to each other – would get Sam as a prize. And he found that he was extremely okay with that. Whatever it entailed.

“No cheating now,” Chad said, and Sam wondered how he got Dean’s number so fast. 

“I just thought we’d make it interesting,” his brother replied. “How about diamond pushups?” The bane of the Winchester existence.

“My favorite kind,” Chad grinned. They both formed their thumbs and forefingers into diamond shapes, then waited expectantly.

“Oh… Go!” Sam said.

Dean and Chad both began pushing, elbows flexing and long, lean bodies moving in rhythm.

“Count,” Dean grunted, so Sam did.

Both slowed a little by the time he called out twenty, but when Chad ground out, “Want to give up?” Sam’s brother seemed to get a second wind, with Chad right there with him.

“Thirty… Thirty-one…” Sam continued to count. Both of their faces were red now, and the sweated with the effort. The veins in Dean’s forearms bulged. Not that Sam was looking.

“Thirty-three.” This was getting ridiculous really. The most Sam had ever accomplished was twenty.

“Fuck,” Chad’s groan was muffled by the fact that he’d unceremoniously dropped with his face in the grass. 

Sam realized it had never been a question who would win. Chad saw this as a fun contest. A manly testing of muscle and lung capacity between two dudes. He had no idea who Sam’s brother was, what he could endure. Dean could take damage like a brick wall that never flinched, never fell. Sam couldn’t love his brother more as Dean managed three more diamond pushups before joining Chad on the ground. Sam watched Dean roll over with one hand over his eyes, shielding them from the overhead sun, grass stains streaking his white undershirt. 

When Dean wiped the sweat from his forehead and opened his green, green eyes he smiled that slow smile at Sam. “What do I win?”

Sam swallowed. 

Chad was sitting up, then getting to his feet. He offered a hand to Dean who, a magnanimous winner now, took it and let himself be pulled up. 

“That was rad, man,” Chad said. “What sport did you play?”

Dean’s eyes were still on Sam’s when he said, “Nothing really. Just keep in shape.” Chad was looking between them then, but Sam found that he didn’t care as much about answering his unspoken questions now. 

“Hey, I gotta go out. Need a ride home, Chad?”

Chad opened his mouth to protest, but Dean continued, “Our dad is pretty strict. You don’t want to be here when he gets home.” 

Chad looked to Sam for confirmation. 

“I thought Dad was out of town on business,” Sam said, an edge in his voice.

“He’s back tonight.” Dean’s eyebrows raised sky high as he said this.

The bird of anticipation in Sam’s chest cavity expired a slow, sad death. Something had happened just now. And Dean had won. And Sam hadn’t even been playing. Whatever he thought might happen, at this latest house, alone with this cute boy in the garage, clearly wasn’t happening now. Dean, with those last three pushups, had seen to that.

“He’s right,” Sam said, even though everything in him wanted to fight Dean, to bring Chad into “his” room and find out what happens next. 

“Okay… See you at school then.” 

That night, Sam fell asleep alone in the house. He’d half expected Dad to arrive, but maybe he would be late. Or maybe, a suspicious niggled at Sam, Dean had been lying because…. Because what? He hadn’t wanted Sam and Chad to stay at home alone. Because why? Because he knew what they were going to do. And why did Dean care? Because he didn’t like the thought of his little brother with a guy. Or because Dean didn’t like the thought of his little brother with another guy? It couldn’t be that.

Except… Except for the look on Dean’s face when he looked up and asked lazily “What do I win?” 

Thoughts, and hopes, chased each other around in Sam’s head until he fell into a fitful sleep.

It was well past midnight when he woke up again, but this time he wasn’t alone. He squirmed at first. Something had the back of his neck in a vice grip. He only minimally relaxed when something told him that the familiar shape over him in the dark, the familiar hand on the back of his neck, was Dean’s.

His brother smelled of alcohol and woman, but Sam would still be able to pick him out of the lineup from the feel of his callused fingers, iron around the back of Sam’s neck.

He felt Dean’s whiskey-breath on his ear. His brother’s lips only millimeters away from the tender skin there. His brother’s voice was a rasp.

“Chad can’t have you.”


End file.
